Ignite the Stars
by salanderjade
Summary: To live, to exist, and to be—that is something she understands. She excels at it. To be alive though, that isn't a language she's ever learned to speak.


Ignite the Stars

Inspired by Hans Christian Anderson's "Little Match Girl"

 _The dark is generous and it is patient and it always wins – but in the heart of its strength lies its weakness: one lone candle is enough to hold it back. Love is more than a candle. Love can ignite the stars." ― Matthew Stover_

Twelve is gone. Prim is gone. Her mother is, for all intents and purposes…gone. And she is alone again. Wandering in the wilderness. Lost to time and space. A broken girl who has been used up and then cast aside. Just a piece in another's Game. He had said to her a long time ago, in another life that he wanted to show them they didn't own him. She remembers feeling sorry for him, concerned with something so trivial when important matters like life and death have yet to be decided. What does something like that matter when survival is on the line? To live, to exist, and to be—that is something she understands. She excels at it. To be alive though, that isn't a language she's ever learned to speak.

Basic necessities. Bare bones. Surviving and subsisting. That is the warp and woof of her. Alive. She knows the theory but not the practice. She has been on the cusp of it a few times in her life. Youth and a happy home gave her a glimpse: a pretty blond mother who smells of lilac and lace, a baby sister whose giggles sounds like a hymn and a father whose strong arms and generous smile warm her more than the flickering blaze in the grate. Gone now. Gone.

The air in the closet is thick with the scent of damp wool and old sweat. Her tears have long since run dry but still she stays. Tucked away from the world and its prying eyes, she lingers in perpetual darkness. Her patchwork skin aches and burns but she ignores it as she does the weak growl of her empty belly. What does that matter? Nothing matters. Nobody cares.

She sings softly to pass the time. The bare walls and empty rooms are a rapt audience as she pours out what is left of her battered heart. Silly songs, sad songs, songs of love and loss and heartache. The Valley Song. She can't think of it without thinking of him, her ruined boy, her lost love. They took him away and broke him, and then gave him back to break her. Gone now like the others.

She leaves the comforting dark only to step into the thin, gray veil of dusk. The rosy hue of sunset has faded, leaving only the tattered remains of the day. Once again, she has managed to not see the sun, only the afterglow. Lips that had long since forgotten how to smile quirk upward. That will be her epitaph. Love, light, and life itself always, always run just ahead. She has managed to catch glimpses, scoop them up when they come within reach and hold on tight only to see them slip away again and again.

She finds her bed and climbs inside, making a cave of the blankets and sheets. Sleep beckons so she gives herself up to it, uncaring of the dreams that wait on the other side. They are there, just as they are night after night. Prim stands silently with wide, sad eyes as flames roil around her. Rue, with flowers still twined in her hair, begs for a song. Her father, streaked with soot and dirt, hands her a bow and tells her not to tell her mother. Peeta, a noose knotted loosely around his neck, smiles and asks if she was coming with him. On and on, over and over again. Glimmer and her golden bees. Finnick's beaming smile and sea green eyes. Gale's velvet tread. The hours trudge onward, bringing with them a new round of faces.

Loved and unloved alike, they surround her. She turns in a slow circle, meeting every eye. They say nothing but their silence cuts deeper than the sharpest of knives. She pleads, she screams, she cries. They still don't answer so she eventually gives in. She sinks to her knees, head bowed and shoulders shaking as sobs tear at her throat. The thump-thud of metal striking the earth sounds like a heartbeat. A rain of ash and dust clogs her throat. She begs them to stop but still it goes on….

She's on her feet and moving before awareness seeps in. The scrape of the shovel grates in her ears, relentless and unrelenting. She bursts out the door and into a pitiless dawn. Dull and disoriented, she can only stop and stare at the sight before her. Thin and pale, skin a hodge-podge of ripples and scars…he stares back with eyes the color of a clear morning sky. He speaks of flowers and sisters and something within her unlocks. She nods and flees before she can give herself away. Pain crests like a tidal wave. It takes her down and pulls her under. Rather than break, she finds other things to break. Still there is no relief. She cries until there's nothing left. She's empty.

It is then that life comes creeping back. There are still bad days and worse nights, silent stares, and quiet weeping. But now there are arms that pull her in and don't let go. There are memories to be treasured and promises to keep. There are new beginnings and old friends. There are kisses, and comfort, and rebirth instead of destruction.

She fumbles and falls and fights.

She learns to live again and to be alive.

And she learns to love. And that makes all the difference.


End file.
